


consign myself to oblivion

by somethingmoresubtle



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: BUT LOVE IS WEIRD MAN LOVE IS WEIRD, I mean... do people even live there?? probably not., Local Murderers Find it Difficult to Get Their Lives Together, M/M, Murder Husbands, Will is straight, and will is probably laughing abt it, eventual reciprocation, hannibal "comes in his pants" lecter, hannibal "cries during sex" lecter, hannibal "human disaster" lecter, hannibal cries, hannibal is a delicate spun sugar emotional flower, post wotl, they're hiding out in canada
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 04:29:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5525423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingmoresubtle/pseuds/somethingmoresubtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will’s actions on the cliff may have been a declaration, but one dissimilar in ilk to Hannibal’s. He has left his heart bare and offered it to Will again, and again.</p><p>He does not want it.</p><p>It is a terrible thing to be known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	consign myself to oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> WHOO BOY HOWDY. This is for the hannigram holiday exchange from tumblr dot com, for my recipient likeahorrorinadream, or more recently, tcbiasfcrge. I hope you like it and i am so sorry but it ISN'T DONE. It'll be... a twelve days of christmas sort of thing... 
> 
> This was VERY KINDLY edited by riddlerandjoker also of tumblr dot com fame. Thank you so much for you patience and work! Any mistakes left are all my own.
> 
> Y'all can find me at alittlequieter dot tumblr dot com.
> 
> (title is from One Last Time from hamilton)

 

 

 

 

_Has he ever tried to persuade you to kill anybody? He will. And it will be somebody you love. And you will think it’s the only choice you have._

_Bedelia Du Maurier, Tome-Wan_

 

Will has had to sort most of his lives into before and after. What he was then, how he acted then, and the inevitable ever changing now. Will Graham has been a hundred different men, all slight variants of himself.

He has never had so many afters as he’s had with Hannibal.

Will capitulates.

-

Before:

There is a cliff and a knife and a dragon slain and cold Atlantic air sticking a sweat and blood stained shirt to his heaving back, chilling him.

His front is warm.

His chest is plastered against Hannibal’s, whose breath is finally regaining cadence and rhythm after the stutter stop halt when Will pulled Hannibal against him. Will still has his face buried in Hannibal’s neck, and scents blood and sweat, salt tang and iron. It is familiar on his tongue, and he feels inexplicably soothed; the world’s oldest lullaby. He isn’t sure what Hannibal can smell on him, some lurid and garish mix of victory and regret, or maybe something more pedestrian all together, the cologne with the ship on the bottle, Dolarhyde and Will’s blood biting metallic, his own sweat.

Hannibal’s hand is still fisted in his shirt, grip tight. It’s nearly uncomfortable, the fabric pulled uncomfortably against the gash in his side. Will wonders if Hannibal’s done it on purpose. He has touched him so rarely, and each touch seems calculated. This though, is unconscious, without intent. Open. Vulnerable. Will needs no especial empathy to know what that means. It almost makes him regret what he does next.

Will tightens his arms around Hannibal. He thinks he feels a whisper of a smile against his ear as he pulls them over, into the sea and the dark.

Into the after.

 

-

Hannibal wakes silently, opening his eyes in the heartbeat between sleep and silence. The bed is small and although Will and he do not physically touch at any point, Will radiates a warmth that has slunk deep beneath Hannibal’s skin. He battles between the urge to brush it away irritably, like a thorn hooked into the meat of his leg, or to pull Will close and luxuriate in the feel of being wrapped around Will physically almost as fully as he has mentally.

He does neither.

For a moment, he looks at Will, who looks soft in the early morning light seeping through the curtains. Will sleeps flat on his back- more out of habit than necessity. The first night he had turned his back on Hannibal, facing the wall, the silence choking. He’d shifted restlessly until he gave into the routine of thirty odd years of sleeping. Since then, he has made no pretense of ignoring Hannibal’s presence in the bed. A face so often caught in the rictus of a frown is lax, his features reduced to impressionist strokes in the dim light, an errant curl fallen across his forehead like it was meant to be there. Hannibal’s hand itches, but he does not brush it away.

 He should have no need; Will’s face is carved into his brain more surely than any brand, in all its permutations of joy and rage and he is more familiar with the planes and curves of his body than Will would like. It is a simple and rare luxury to watch the soft rise and fall of his chest, noting the hitch in his breath when he inhales. Bruised ribs are a nuisance that only time can fix, which irritates something nameless that sits disquiet in Hannibal’s chest. The slash across Will’s face is healing poorly, the skin puckering at the edges like an improperly seamed hem, making a mockery of the clean knife cut it had once been, despite Hannibal’s care. It will probably scar, a jagged line curving along his cheekbone. He allows the flush of pride and horrid _possession_ , ugly only in its lack of reciprocity, rush through him and releases it just as easily.

Hannibal rises, stiffly, and grimaces as he places his feet against the cold hardwood floor. When convenient, he is sure to get a small carpet, something warm and firm beneath his feet.

Hannibal has not cared for winter for a very long time.

A thick sweater is hung across the chair. Hannibal is well aware of its true owner and that his wearing of it would be… intimate, but he is too cold and irritable to worry about Will’s reaction or lack thereof. Breakfast will not start itself, and Will shows no sign of rising any time soon.

He hasn’t commented on how Will is much more likely to sleep through the night these days.

He is, uncharacteristically, afraid to hear his reason.

Hannibal has always liked cooking for an occasion, taking inspiration from his guests or surroundings or whatever best suits his mood. This tiny cabin of Will’s secreted in the heart of the Rocky Mountains of British Columbia sits in the middle of a wild unspeakably cold and aggressively beautiful. The snow, feet deep, stretches white and untouched in all directions except for where he and Will and the occasional deer have roamed. Spruce and pine loom dark above them, the air fresh with their scent.

It reminds him of childhood, sometimes, when the night is dark and wind howls through the trees to rattle against the slats of the cabin. He has woken from dreams of milk teeth floating to the top of his soup bowl, breaking the thin film there, of endless days wandering through deserted woods, of blood on fresh snow. He has stepped into rooms of his mind palace that he cannot safely go, and it rankles that he cannot fully control where his mind wanders.

He has always believed in the power of a meal, so he makes a dish that is comforting, heartening. Pulling a truly remarkable cast iron skillet from the cupboard, he lights the gas stove and turns the dial to high. He grabs russet potatoes and onions, and roughly chops them, knife thunking against the wooden chopping board, and throws them in the pan with butter. It sizzles, and Hannibal inhales gratefully. Once the onions have caramelized and the potatoes have begun to brown and crisp, he drains home-canned tomatoes and pours them into the pan with salt, pepper, rosemary. Whisking eggs gently until smooth and uniform, he turns off the heat and pours them in, stirring. As the eggs begin to coalesce, he shreds in sharp orange cheddar, watching the dish come together with great satisfaction.

He’s pulling out sturdy ceramic plates and cutlery when Will pads into the kitchen.

For a moment, Hannibal is stricken. Will yawns and scratches at his stomach underneath his shirt, which Hannibal would find rude were it anyone else, but for a brief handful of seconds he can see the mark he left there, a smiling curving towards heaven, a scar Hannibal left as a permanent marking of what is _his_.

And then it disappears as quickly as it came. Hannibal has not seen it since the night on the boat months ago. He averts his eyes, busying himself with setting the small kitchen table.

“Smells good.” Will says, leaning on the counter, elbows pressed against the dark wood there. “What are we having?”

“A farmer’s breakfast hash, made with potato, onion, and tomato.” He says, doling out portions for Will and himself. “With notes of rosemary to accentuate the simple flavours.” Will steps closer to him, peering over his shoulder, and Hannibal stiffens. “Rosemary has had much significance to rural people of time ago, and to some extent, today. It was used for remembrance of things long forgotten, and sometimes as demon repellent.”

Will snorts. “I’m trying not to say anything too catty.”

Hannibal glides to the table with plates in hand. “I can’t recall you ever refraining before.” Will sits across from him, and he watches him spear a potato and chew it thoughtfully.

“‘s good.” Will says, muffled around a mouthful. His eyes are fixed on the sweater Hannibal is wearing. Hannibal holds his breath.

Will says nothing, and returns his attention to his plate.

-

This is neither before nor after but somewhere in between. There is Will and Hannibal, and there was a cliff and the night and the ocean crashing loudly around them, buffeting bodies already tired and cold and beginning to stiffen.

There is a small boat rusted red with a cabin barely tall enough to stand in, stooped, but it is out of the water and the wind and is equipped with what Hannibal deemed necessities, canned food and water, fresh clothes, a kitchen, a bathroom, a bed.

Both of them cram into the tiny shower stall to wash off the salt grit on their skin, and the water puddles pale red around them as dried blood comes off. Hannibal is not quite so tired to be unappreciative of the closeness and intimacy, Will trusting or at least no longer actively mindful of what he could do to his body.

(How could he, when he’s already changed his mind so irrevocably.)

Hannibal presses closer, feeling the last remnants of Will’s body heat and is struck with the heady realization that he could replace it with his own touch, bodies so close that there is no distinction between them. It sings through him, warm and intoxicating. He presses his face against the crown of his head for a moment, inhaling deeply, luxuriating in the scent that is so purely Will; a little doggy and muddied with blood but something clean and sharp like lightning lingers on his palate.  

Hannibal is a selfish man.

He peels Will’s shirt off and he shudders as it pulls at the wound in his side. It begins oozing blood again, sluggishly, and Hannibal has half a mind to taste it, to see if it tastes like he has imagined many a time before. Briefly, he wonders if his consumption would enlighten him, allow him to know Will as Will knows him. He ignores it, and helps Will step out of his soaked trousers and socks. His hands don’t stray anywhere near his briefs, and Will makes no move to take them off.

Will’s hands unbutton Hannibal’s own shirt, and his fingers tremble as they undo the tiny buttons, from the cold or something else entirely. Hannibal doesn’t dare breath. Will pulls it down his shoulders inch by inch and it falls wetly to the floor.  He leaves Hannibal to undo his own trousers, and he leaves his own underwear on for Will’s sake more than his own.

They wrap themselves in the thin towels stored beneath the sink and pad shivering to the tiny kitchen, bumping into each other like worn children as the boat shifts restlessly over the waves. Will looks like he may never be warm again. Hannibal looks at him and is struck viscerally by the desire to slice him open from collar bone to pelvis, crack open his ribs and crawl inside, never to leave. He quells it and instead opens the well-stocked first aid kit. Will sits across from him without prompting, knees knocking against his, eyes quiet.

Hannibal’s hands do not shake as he sews up Will’s skin in careful even stitches.

“I don’t know why I didn’t expect a back-up escape route at the bottom of the cliff.” Will’s voice emerges rusty but clear, like the first pump of water come spring.

“I have always found value in planning for all eventualities.” Hannibal says mildly. “And I was disinclined to die today.”

He tips Will’s chin up, turning his head to the side, tsking at the wound Dolarhyde left there. Pulling out a cotton swab, he douses it in antiseptic and dabs at it gently. Will grimaces and breaks the tenuous scab there, blood flowing anew. Hannibal soaks it up reverently, waiting for it to slow before he begins stitching. The needle is cruelly hooked and black and Will flinches as Hannibal slowly pulls him back together with steel and thread.

“Stay still.” He murmurs, hand fastening around the hinge of Will’s jaw, fingers spanning from neck to cheekbone and watches, fascinated, as Will swallows heavily and gives him a nearly imperceptible nod as his eyelashes flutter. He can feel Will’s pulse slow and liquid start to quicken under the soft skin under his jaw where his thumb is pressed firmly. Warmth begins to simmer low in Hannibal’s stomach, and whatever look crosses his face causes Will’s eyes  to widen and Hannibal watches the black of his pupil consume his iris, leaving only the thinnest ring of blue in striking chiaroscuro.

Hannibal snips the last thread and goes over the clean line of his suture once more with a swab. “ You will probably want to start with the bullet wound.” He turns the medical kit towards Will and watches as he deftly threads the eye of a new needle. “Do you regret that you killed neither of us?”

Will is silent for a long moment as he stares consideringly at Hannibal’s stomach. “Yes.” he says. “And no.”

“Too impersonal?” Hannibal smiles briefly as Will spreads one hand against his stomach the the muscle there quivers. He closes his eyes as Will begins to clean the wound, rougher than he expected and beautiful in its savagery, committing the moment to memory.

Will huffs a laugh. “I’d do it with my hands.”

“If you really meant it.”

Will pauses, quiet like a man in confessional. “If I really meant it.”

They are silent for a long time, and it falls comfortably around them. Hannibal watches the colour seep back into Will’s skin as his eyelids grow heavy. His hands slow but his stitching is steady as he puts Hannibal back together.

“Will.”

Will looks up.

“Will.” He says again, for the pleasure of it.

Will quirks an eyebrow. It’s a familiar expression and Hannibal is reminded suddenly of those last moments in his cell when he saw it last. It may have been just that morning but it feels like a century ago, as if the whole world has shifted in that time and made a space for him again, made space for him and _Will_ again.

Never before has freedom meant so much to him.

“Let’s to bed, Will.”

Will looks at him through half-shut eyes. “Yeah.” He stands slowly like Atlas might. “Yeah.”

They stumble down the cramped corridor to the bedroom, rocked by uneasy waves. Will walks in front of him, one hand pressed against the wall. Hannibal can feel the heat of him now, and his eyes are inexorably drawn to the nape of his neck, the corded strength there, the way his hair curls soft against his skin.

He must. He must.

Hannibal crowds behind Will, hands firmly pressed against the flesh of his hips and walks him into the wall. He rests his head in the crook between neck and shoulder and sighs. Will doesn’t move beneath him.

“Will.” He breathes into his skin, and pleasure coils hot around his spine as he shivers.

Will turns around in his arms, back pressing against the wall and Hannibal presses closer. Will’s skin is almost burning and all that separates them is two layers of clothing, and there is nothing he wants more than to be closer.

“Will.” The distance between them is nearly nothing but still too much. Hannibal can feel Will’s breath on his face.

He leans in. He has wanted this for so long-

“No.” He freezes. Backs up the inches he needs to look Will in the eye again. He needs to see him.

“No.” He says, softer yet, but Hannibal feels like he’s been struck physically.

Hannibal reels, back banging against the cheap paneling on the other side of the hall. Will will not meet his eye. He rubs at the back of his neck for a moment, mouth opening as if to say something and Hannibal cannot pretend to be anything but desperate for what Will might tell him.

He says nothing.

Words are clawing at his throat, trying to spill out and backstep what’s been done but they clog behind his soft palate- he cannot think of the last time he was speechless.

Hannibal is impulsive; he’s always been aware of the one train of thought always committed to his amusement, but he has never considered himself _reckless_. His grasp on this situation, the tenuous grip he’s had on Will that he’s been fostering since the beginning is crumbling beneath him like a cliff giving way to the sea.

The boat lurches beneath them, unsettling them both. Will braces himself against the opposite wall and winces as the shock runs through him.

Will clears his throat. “It’s getting rough. Out there. We should sleep.”

Hannibal looks at the floor, Will’s feet pink and bare. It is unbearably intimate but he cannot force himself to look Will in the face.

Terror is not an emotion Hannibal is exceedingly familiar with, but he can think of no other word to describe his unwillingness to find out what is painted there.

“Yes,” He says. “A moment. There is something I must attend to first.”

He doesn’t know if Will watches him as he walks towards the kitchen, pace and gait forcibly controlled but his pulse rabitting in his throat. Hannibal isn’t sure what would be worse, pity or disregard.

He was… wrong.

Will’s actions on the cliff may have been a declaration, but one dissimilar in ilk to Hannibal’s. He has left his heart bare and offered it to Will again, and again.

He does not want it.

It is a terrible thing to be known.


End file.
